Part 38 (1/2)

”The trial is severe,” said the judge, who began to feel compunctions that were rare to one of his habits, ”but it is as necessary to your own future peace, as it is to justice itself, that the truth should be known. I am compelled to order thy daughter to advance to the body.”

Marguerite received this unexpected command with cold womanly reserve. Too much wounded to complain, but trembling for the conduct of her child, she went to the cl.u.s.ter of females, pressed Christine to her heart, and led her silently forward. She presented her to the chatelain, with a dignity so calm and quiet, that the latter found it oppressive!

”This is Balthazar's child,” she said. Then folding her arms, she retired herself a step, an attentive observer of what pa.s.sed.

The judge regarded the sweet pallid face of the trembling girl with an interest he had seldom felt for any who had come before him in the discharge of his unbending duties. He spoke to her kindly, and even encouragingly, placing himself intentionally between her and the dead, momentarily hiding the appalling spectacle from her view, that she might have time to summon her courage. Marguerite blessed him in her heart for this small grace, and was better satisfied.

”Thou wert betrothed to Jacques Colis?” demanded the chatelain, using a gentleness of voice that was singularly in contrast with his former stern interrogatories.

The utmost that Christine could reply was to bow her head.

”Thy nuptials were to take place at the late meeting of the Abbaye des Vignerons--it is our unpleasant duty to wound where we could wish to heal--but thy betrothed refused to redeem his pledge?”

”The heart is weak, and sometimes shrinks from its own good purposes,”

murmured Christine. ”He was but human, and he could not withstand the sneers of all about him.”

The chatelain was so entranced by her gentle and sweet manner that he leaned forward to listen, lest a syllable of what she whispered might escape his ears.

”Thou acquittest, then, Jacques Colis of any false intention?”

”He was less strong than he believed himself, mein Herr; he was not equal to sharing our disgrace, which was put rudely and too strongly before him.”

”Thou hadst consented freely to the marriage thyself, and wert well disposed to become his wife?”

The imploring look and heaving respiration of Christine were lost on the blunted sensibilities of a criminal judge.

”Was the youth dear to thee?” he repeated, without perceiving the wound he was inflicting on female reserve.

Christine shuddered. She was not accustomed to have affections which she considered the most sacred of her short and innocent existence so rudely probed; but, believing that the safety of her father depended on her frankness and sincerity, by an effort that was nearly superhuman, she was enabled to reply. The bright glow that suffused her face, however, proclaimed the power of that sentiment which becomes instinctive to her s.e.x, arraying her features in the l.u.s.tre of maiden shame.

”I was little used to hear words of praise, Herr Chatelain,--and they are so soothing to the ears of the despised! I felt as a girl acknowledges the preference of a youth who is not disagreeable to her. I thought he loved me--and--what would you more, mein Herr?”

”None could hate thee, innocent and abused child!” murmured the Signor Grimaldi.

”You forget that I am Balthazar's daughter, mein Herr; none of our race are viewed with favor.”

”Thou, at least, must be an exception!”

”Leaving this aside,” continued the chatelain, ”I would know if thy parents showed resentment at the misconduct of thy betrothed; whether aught was said in thy presence, that can throw light on this unhappy affair?”

The officer of the Valais turned his head aside; for he met the surprised and displeased glance of the Genoese, whose eye expressed a gentleman's opinion at hearing a child thus questioned in a matter that so nearly touched her father's life. But the look and the improper character of the examination escaped the notice of Christine. She relied with filial confidence on the innocence of the author of her being, and, so far from being shocked, she rejoiced with the simplicity and confidence of the undesigning at being permitted to say anything that might vindicate him in the eyes of his judges.

”Herr Chatelain,” she answered eagerly, the blood that had mounted to her cheeks from female weakness, deepening to, and warming, her very temples with a holier sentiment: ”Herr Chatelain, we wept together when alone; we prayed for our enemies as for ourselves, but naught was said to the prejudice of poor Jacques--no, not a whisper.”

”Wept and prayed!” repeated the judge, looking from the child to the father, in the manner of a man that fancied he did not hear aright.

”I said both, mein Herr; if the former was a weakness, the latter was a duty.”

”This is strange language in the mouth of a Leadsman's child!”